Thirst (25 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

A COLD REALITY

A strange, almost ethereal force was calling out to Connor in the hospital as he finished signing his mother’s insurance and transfer papers. Something was wrong, and Connor could feel it—something to do with Hanna.

“Are you okay?” Ava asked Connor. Connor had not realized, but he had zoned out, mid-conversation. A sudden sick feeling, deep in his gut had developed and his eyes completely glazed over.

“Connor?” Ava prodded again.

Connor looked slowly up at the young nurse. “I think I have to go,” he said monotonously.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I just—I just need to go.”

Ava stood tense, frightened by Connor’s sudden change in emotion. He had flipped like a switch, completely unexpectedly.

“Can I do anything?” Ava asked.

Connor quickly through his coat over his body and turned to leave. “I’ll be back,” Connor said, not having heard Ava’s question. He was too distracted by the dread pulsing through his veins.

“Something is wrong with Hanna,” his intuition said to him, over and over and over again.

The sensation of panic was overwhelming. Connor’s heart rate increased sharply, his heart slamming against his chest. His breathing became quick and shallow, and he had the powerful desire to run as fast as he possibly could. He needed to get to Hanna.

He ran out of the hospital without acknowledging anyone, and he headed straight towards Hanna’s house. He did not bother to do up his coat, despite the blood-freezing temperatures. He did not bother to put on his toque. He simply ran as fast as his athletic body could. And, as he ran through that insufferable cold, some invisible, cruel hand clenched his heart tightly. The ghost, which calls himself dread, breathed his frigid breath viciously down the back of Connor’s neck.

Teeth clattering and skin burning from the cold, Connor arrived at Hanna’s decrepit house. He made no hesitations running straight up to the door.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Hanna!” Connor called out. “Hanna—Are you okay? Open up!”

Connor’s heart was beating ferociously in the pit of his stomach.

“Hanna! I’m coming in!” Connor called out.

He reached for the dilapidated doorknob and pushed the old door open. A swirl of old dust blew out the door and whirled around with a plume of falling snow.

Connor stepped into the old creaky house. “Hanna!” he called out.

The house was uncomfortably empty—painfully forlorn. Every step Connor took elicited a loud, deep groan out of the seemingly ancient structure.

As Connor closed the door behind him, all of the old dusty curtains, which hung in front of the plywood boards against the windows, blew up from the ground in a swift panic, releasing large plumes of thick dust into the dry, stagnant air.

Between the all-encompassing darkness and the thick walls of dust, Connor could not see more than five feet ahead of himself. He reached forward, looking for a light switch.

“Hanna! It’s Connor! Are you home?” Connor called out again.

Then, he found the switch. A light flickered for a moment before dimly lighting the old, moaning mansion.

Murderer

The haunting words were spray-painted prominently on the entrance wall of the house, over the remnants of other nasty labels. Connor slowly scanned the mural and then his eyes landed on a peculiar sight...

Long finger streaks of dark blood, swept across the wall. The blood appeared fresh. On the floor below was Hanna’s coat, with blood around the wrists.

Connor began to walk through Hanna’s home. His eyes were wide as the cold air penetrated his sensitive skin.

Demon Child

Another vandal had left their mark near the end of the hallway.

Connor stepped into a large empty space, which at one point in time was a living room. Now, it was nothing more than the resting place of some malevolent spirit—an evil forlorn den. The old, rotting walls seemed to lean inwards, suffocating the room. There was no art on the walls—and the only window in the room had been smashed and subsequently covered up with an old, mouldy piece of plywood.

Connor stepped towards the window. There was only a small crack along the left edge of the plywood, which provided visibility to the outside. As Connor scanned the old piece of wood, flashing red and blue light spilled through the long crack.

A police cruiser had pulled up to the front of the house.

Connor’s heart stopped for a moment. He swiftly scanned the room. He ran across the living room towards the kitchen, which circled back into the hallway he came from. There was no back door. Every window was sealed.

Panicked, he stepped back up to the boarded living room window.

Constable Hendricks stepped out from the cruiser, with a walkie in his hand.

“Roger that—I’m at the house now,” Hendricks said into the walkie-talkie.

“Backup is on the way. Proceed with caution,” dispatch replied.

Hendricks walked up towards the old house. As he stepped up to the door, he stepped out of Connor’s line of sight.

Connor scanned the house again—there was absolutely no escape.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Connor quietly hurried down the hallway and looked around himself. Then, he saw the open door leading to the staircase. Without hesitation, he hurried up the stairs.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Hanna Wilkinson! Are you home? This is Constable Hendricks. I need to ask you some questions.”

Connor ran over to an old closet, which seemed like an ideal hiding spot. Carefully, he ducked down and tucked himself around the corner, out of sight from the hallway. He buried his body into a series of old dusty cobwebs while he waited for the officer to leave.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“If you’re home, failure to answer the door will result in charges of resisting arrest!” the officer called out.

“Arrest?” Connor muttered to himself.

“Miss Wilkinson, this is your last chance to open the door!” Constable Hendricks called out.

There was a moment of anxious silence, and then front door creaked open.

Connor could hear the house groan as the constable stepped through the aged house.

Bleep! Bloop!

“This is Constable Hendricks. Lights have been left on in the Wilkinson house, but no one answered the door... There is blood on the wall, and it appears to be fresh,” the constable said into his walkie-talkie.

“Jesus Christ,” Hendricks muttered as he walked through the cold house. “Hanna Wilkinson! I know you’re home!”

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!

The policeman began to walk up the stairs in his heavy boots. The house’s deep groaning became louder as it became angrier of his presence.

Connor closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. If he were not careful, Constable Hendricks would hear his heart beating against his trembling rib cage. After a moment, Connor opened his eyes. There was a peculiar silence.

Slowly, he peeked his head out of the closet.

Constable Hendricks was standing a mere ten feet away with his back turned to the young athletic boy. Quickly, Connor receded back into his hiding place, his calmed heart exploding back into its rapid rhythm.

“Miss Wilkinson!” the constable called out again.

Suddenly, a swift breeze of cold air swirled through the house, accompanied by a loud, deep groan. Like the spirit of some powerful specter, a chill stung Connor’s very soul.

Constable Hendricks spun around swiftly as he felt something grab his shoulder. “Who’s there!” he yelled. His hands were beginning to shake in fear. “Hello?”

Connor could feel it too. They were not alone in that house. There was someone else—something else there with them.

“Pull yourself together, man,” Hendricks told himself as he continued to patrol through the ostensibly empty house.

Another cold shriek of impossible wind sailed through the frigid house, eliciting another swift spin out of the scared officer. His face was as pale as a fragile, cracked egg.

Then, without any warning, some invisible force shoved the officer violently against the ancient wall of the house.

Bang!

His body slammed directly against a support beam, causing the officer to wince in pain. His breathing became frantic as he looked around for some logical explanation for the supernatural attack.

“Who’s here?” he demanded to know.

That unholy wind began again to whistle through the house. This time, it spoke in a serene, yet stern voice. “Leave,” it seemed to say. The strange voice echoed through the house in every key and every octave.

Constable Hendricks complied. He wasted no time in heading directly down the stairs and towards the entrance of the house.

Slam!

Hendricks slammed the door behind him as he ran directly for his warm, safe cruiser.

Eyes wide and breath staggered, Connor peeked back around the corner. The house was once again seemingly empty—as if no one had been inside for one hundred years.

Connor stood up and began to walk down the hallway again. “H—Hanna?” he called out gently.

However, his voice was met with no response.

It was more obvious than ever—Hanna had dark secrets that were beyond anything Connor could fathom. It was very possible that Hanna was behind the string of murders throughout the town.